There is No Caffeine
by Anakin McFly
Summary: A collection of Matrix vignettes, mostly Neo-centric. #8 - Secret Window
1. There is No Caffeine

Disclaimer: I don't own The Matrix, though I still say that the Wachowskis stole my idea. I'd always wanted to write this story where someone found out that the world was actually just some virtual reality thing created by a bunch of bored scientists, after a glitch in the system caused the programme to go crazy and reveal the truth to him... It's not exactly like the Matrix, but it's close enough for people to accuse me for plagiarism if I ever write it. 

Oh well. I'll settle for fanfic. 

**

THERE IS NO CAFFEINE

**

This night was different, somehow. 

The past few days all seemed one long blur - events happening one after another without a break like some fast-paced action movie. But now, it was as though time had suddenly stopped. Neo lay on his bed in the darkness, listening to the quiet hum of the Nebuchadnezzar's engines and vaguely hoping that the storage compartment hanging over his bed would not decide to fall on him. 

_If you fall on me, I'll bash you_, he thought darkly. _And I know kung fu, so I can probably bash you pretty hard._ Neo gave the wire frame of the storage compartment a warning look, and then wondered why he even bothered. 

He rolled over in bed and stared at the metal wall, stained here and there with bits of grime, rust, and who knew what else. Neo didn't feel all too comfortable staring so intently at it, so he rolled back over and tried once more to fall asleep. 

He'd spent the better half of that day flying around inside the Matrix and freaking out the occasional person who might spot him. Sometime later, he had gone to get himself a cup of coffee from Starbucks for no apparent reason other than the fact that he missed the beverage. So what if it wasn't actually real? The taste of the drink was good enough for him. In fact, it had been so good that he'd bought another cup. 

Unfortunately, Neo had overlooked one of the more common side effects of consuming too much caffeine. Somehow he'd never thought that it would be an issue, what with the coffee not being real and all that. 

_The mind makes it real_, Morpheus had once said to him what, a week or two ago? It felt more like only two hours. 

The mind makes it real. For some reason, Neo had always thought that that only applied to injuries, death, and that sort of thing. 

Apparently, though, that wasn't the case. 

So here he was now, suffering from insomnia because of too much digital-coffee-derived imaginary caffeine in his system. It was kind of pathetic, when he came to think of it. 

Neo closed his eyes. "There is no caffeine," he thought aloud, waited a few seconds to let the words sink in, then opened his eyes again. It didn't seem to be working. He swore under his breath. 

Maybe it would help if he walked around a little. Getting off the bed, Neo left his room and turned right into the dimly lit corridor, running his fingers lightly against the wall. That soon turned out to be a mistake - the walls were kind of greasy. 

Several seconds later, Neo entered the mess hall, illuminated at this time by a single light near the food dispensers. Ah, the wonderful food dispensers that dispensed the nutritious glop which the crew of the Nebuchadnezzar had to eat three meals a day, twenty-four seven. 

The mess hall was empty and devoid of any life forms, humans or otherwise. That was, unless you were one of those people who believed the rumours that the aforementioned nutritious glop had a mind of its own and came alive at night. 

Neo missed real food. Then he realised that he'd never actually had real food before. Until he was unplugged, he had been just another one of the many billions of humans jacked into the Matrix - living off nutrients fed through tubes, with the occasional dead guy thrown into the mix. But at least he hadn't known back then that the slice of pepperoni pizza he was eating technically didn't exist and was merely an artificial construct of the Matrix. 

Ignorance was bliss. Neo wondered what a real Big Mac would taste like. Two flame-grilled patties, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, on a sesame seed bun... Oh great. Now he was hungry, and save for the possibly alive stuff in the food dispenser - which was a rather unappetising option - there wasn't anything to eat. 

Neo left the mess hall and went back to his room. He might as well just lie down, even if he couldn't sleep. Besides, there was nowhere else to go. The main deck of the ship was still a complete mess, the result of the sentinel attack the day before. If he were to go up there, the chances of him tripping over a robotic tentacle and seriously injuring himself were relatively high. 

Back in his room, on his bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering what his life had got to. 

He didn't want to be The One, not really; didn't want to know to that so many people were depending on him to do something he didn't know much about. At any moment, he felt as if something would happen and he'd be exposed as a fraud... just like the so many potentials Morpheus had picked up before him who turned out not to be the real deal. Sure, so he'd defeated several agents that past week - something no one else before him had been able to do - and he'd sort of come back from the dead too - but what if all that had just been flukes? Improbable, but the possibility was still there. 

What had he done to deserve all this, anyway? What made him so special? Back then in his life in the Matrix, he was just a normal guy - Thomas A. Anderson, employee of a respectable software company by day, computer hacker by night. He'd spent most of his life trying to escape from it all, always feeling that there was something else beyond the world he knew. 

And now he was here, and things weren't much better. 

Sometimes he envied all those people still plugged into the Matrix, blissfully oblivious about anything and everything that happened in the real world. They went about their normal, routine lives day after day, year after year, completely ignorant of the fact that all around their physical selves, a huge war was being waged between the free humans and their AI creations. 

Yet Neo had the feeling that quite a few of those plugged-in people would give anything to be in his position now. The chance to escape from all they knew just like that: no more work, no more school, no more stress... who wouldn't want it? 

The grass was always greener on the other side. 

It struck him that he'd never actually seen grass before. Down here on the Nebuchadnezzar, travelling through the sewers, there wasn't a single green blade to be seen. There were probably none in the underground city of Zion either, unless some people grew plants of their own. 

Nature. Neo had never really realised it before, but that was what was most lacking in the real world. The surface above, dotted with the last vestiges of humanity: crumbled buildings, now deserted, scattered under the blackened sky. Somewhere above the clouds, perhaps the sun still shone... but its rays would never penetrate far enough for green life to start again. And somewhere, the machines waited, waited for the day when they would finally overthrow the last of their creators, the humans. The humans who were relying on Neo to save them. 

He didn't want to think about that now. Eventually, the time would come when he'd have to, but not yet. Not now. 

Neo rolled over in bed again, mentally cursing the day's coffee indulgence whose effects were starting to drive him crazy. _Right_, he thought to himself, firmly pushing away all distractions from his mind. _Concentrate. Step one: close eyes. Step two: try to sleep. There is no caffeine..._

He managed to fall asleep eventually, only to be rudely awakened a mere two hours later to discover that it was already morning. 

It just wasn't fair. 

**THE END**

Review? ;P 


	2. Breakfast of Champions

Disclaimer: Don't own _The Matrix_. Wachowskis do.

Uh, I'm not sure if I'm going to turn this into one long fic or have each chapter as a separate short story. I'm just writing to see how it'll turn out.

* * *

**BREAKFAST**

Plop.

The white glop slid off his spoon and back into the bowl from whence it came, sinking slowly down until the surface was level once more.

His breakfast seemed to be calling out to him. _Eat me_, it said. _Eat me, Neo. I'm nutritious and healthy and tasteless, and I'm all you're ever going to eat for the rest of your pitiful little life. And what's more, there's nothing you can do about it. Hah. So there._

Neo stuck his spoon into the food and swirled it around. After a while he took up a spoonful of food, the excess bits slopping off back into the bowl, and brought it into his mouth.

_The breakfast, lunch, and dinner of champions. If you close your eyes, it almost feels like you're eating runny eggs. Or a bowl of snot._

Neo swallowed. There was no need for chewing. Half-heartedly, he scooped up more of the nutrient mix masquerading as his breakfast and mentally prepared his tastebuds for Round Two.

Tastee Wheat, the late Mouse had said. It tasted like Tastee Wheat.

Neo had never eaten Tastee Wheat before - technically, none of them had - but he was sure it tasted better than this. At least the machines knew how to simulate good food in the Matrix.

Like the coffee. The blasted coffee that had kept him up all night. He didn't feel fully awake yet. Maybe this was all a dream, he thought sleepily. Maybe he hadn't actually woken up yet, and when he _did_ wake up he'd have to eat breakfast all over again...

Or maybe he'd discover that everything that had happened in the past few days had just been one long dream, and wake up back at his computer in the dingy little apartment that had been home for so long. And everything would be normal again. He'd go to work, arrive late as usual, get yelled at by Mr. Rhineheart, go to his cubicle and try to look busy, get dinner, go home, vegetate in front of his computer, fall asleep, then wake up the next day and do it all over again. He'd have a social security number, he'd pay his taxes, and he'd help his landlady carry out the garbage. No Agents chasing after him, nobody expecting him to save the world on a diet of glop, no navigating the sewers in a hovercraft... and no Trinity.

But he supposed that everything had a price to it.

Plop.

Neo looked up from his bowl at the others, picking away at their food with varying degrees of enthusiasm and enjoyment, faces bathed in the eerie white light of the flourescent lamps. No one was talking. The only sounds in the mess hall were the quiet ones of eating and the ever-present hum of the _Nebuchadnezzar._

It was a surreal scene. And once again, Neo sensed it: that elusive feeling that he was being watched. And not only him, but all of them.

Uneasily, Neo scanned the top of the wall in front of him. He wasn't too sure what he expected to find - cameras, perhaps? - but there was nothing.

He went back to staring at his food and reluctantly consumed another two spoonfuls. Vaguely, Neo found himself thinking that anyone who wanted to lose weight should spend a week or two on the _Neb_. No delicious, scrumptious eatables here to tempt you. Just your average gooey white stuff, take it or leave it.

Plop.

Neo gently shook the now half-empty spoon a second time, and another lump of food fell off to land in the bowl beside the first. They looked like two eyes. He used the spoon and drew a little mouth underneath them, forming a smiley face of sorts.

A rare grin flicked briefly across Neo's face.

_The food was alive, it had a mind of its own..._

_Stop it_, said the little voice in his head. _You're thirty-seven years old, for crying out loud. Stop playing with your food and eat it up._

_But..._ he protested silently.

_I **said**..._

_Who are you, anyway?_

_EAT IT!_

_Okay, fine, whatever..._

Grudgingly, Neo obeyed. He supposed he could always stop by at McDonald's or something for a bite the next time he jacked into the Matrix. But for now, he needed something to sustain him until lunch.

Lunch. More of this stuff. Just thinking about it made him feel like throwing up.

The breakfast, lunch, and dinner of champions. Oh yeah.

**end.**

* * *

To be continued... Review!

* * *

**HyperCaz:** Yeah, there is no chocolate... :eats chocolate: ;P  
**Elle457:** Thanks for reviewing!  
**Eternal Density:** What's the Imagination Station? Yeah, I think it has two d's.  
**Grim Reaper:** Okay, I'll continue They've Got Mail... soon... when I get down to it... actually, I blame that fic for getting me into _Matrix_ fanfic in the first place.  
**LiMiYa:** Thanks for your review!  
**Ryu-Gi:** Ditto. :D  
**Nova Adams/Kleenexwoman:** Uh, are you two the same person? Because in Kleenexwoman's bio it says you are. Just wondering... Thanks for reviewing!  
**bloodstoner:** Okay, next one's here. Thanks for reviewing!  
**aka-white-wolf:** Yeah, I'm continuing it. ;P  
**flux capacitor...fluxing:** Thanks for your review!  
**ultra-violet-catastrophy:** Which part is? The author's note or the fic? Thanks for reviewing! 


	3. No Place Like Home

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix.

Disclaimer 2: The name 'Mrs. Thatch' was my brother's idea. His penname is Jake Skywalker, and he would like you to read his stories.

I'm currently listening to the overture from the Bill and Ted musical. Don't ask. You can get the soundtrack online if you want to; nice music. ;P

I haven't really figured out what this fic will be; it's either a short story collection or a novel. Basically, it's my idea of what happened in the six months between the first Matrix and Reloaded.

* * *

**NO PLACE LIKE HOME**

The knocking on the door repeated itself a third time, more insistently than the last. A short moment passed as the knocker paused to listen, but no sound was heard coming from the apartment.

"Thomas?" an elderly woman's voice called out. There was no reply, so she tried again. "Thomas, are you there?"

When only silence met her ears, the landlady dug into her pocket and withdrew a set of keys. Holding them out to the dim light to make out their labels, she chose one and stuck it into the lock of Neo's apartment. The door creaked open, and Mrs. Thatch stepped into the blackness beyond.

Blinking as her failing eyes tried to get used to the dark, she fumbled for the light switch and flicked the lights on. The overhead lamp lighted up after some hesitation, for it had not been used in a while; the room's owner had a certain penchant for living only by the light of his computer.

Better able to see now, Mrs. Thatch surveyed the mess in the apartment and wondered how anyone could live in such a cluttered place. A light covering of dust over everything gave rise to the inference that the place didn't seem to have been touched in several days, but at the same time, it didn't seem to have been deliberately abandoned either. The computer still on, equipment strewn all over the tables, old food packets in the dustbin, unwashed cutlery in the sink…

The room bore an eerie resemblance to one that Mrs. Thatch had read about in the newspapers some time ago – the room's owner had spontaneously combusted, and no one knew she had died until several days later when they found her charred skeleton sitting in a remarkably unscathed chair.

_"What would happen if you melted? You know, you never really hear this talked about much, but spontaneous combustion? It exists! ...People burn from within... sometimes they'll be in a wooden chair and the chair won't burn, but there'll be nothing left of the person. Except sometimes his teeth. Or the heart. No one speaks about this, but it's for real."_

Mrs. Thatch shuddered. She couldn't remember where she had heard or read that, but it had stuck in her mind ever since.

Apart from her, however, the apartment was devoid of humans, burnt to a crisp or otherwise.

What could have made him leave so suddenly like that? Without warning, just gone – disappeared. Thomas' boss at Meta CorTechs, Mr. Rhineheart, had called her up demanding to know why he hadn't been coming to work and if she knew anything regarding his whereabouts.

She didn't.

A cockroach scuttled out from under the bed and disappeared into a dark corner.

It seemed unlikely that Thomas had run away – the state of the room implied that he had left with the intention of returning. And if he had been attacked and murdered while he was out, surely there'd be something on the news by now?

Shaking slightly at the thought of Thomas lying dead in some alley somewhere, Mrs. Thatch turned off the light and left the apartment.

And then, that night, her doorbell rang. When she answered the door, he was standing there.

Slowly, Mrs. Thatch's mouth opened. "Thomas?"

Neo gave a wan smile. "Hi. I… just thought I'd say goodbye, Mrs. Thatch. Sorry for leaving so suddenly…"

The old woman was still stunned at his sudden reappearance. "But… where'd you go?"

"I can't tell you that. I'm sorry."

"Why not?"

Neo hesitated. "Maybe… maybe one day you'll find out."

A moment's silence passed between the two of them, then he broke it.

"I'll just go over to my apartment now… clear up some things… Yeah. I'll come back later."

Mrs. Thatch nodded, and Neo turned to leave, reaching into his pocket for his apartment key that had been recreated in the Construct. He went down the corridor he had done so many times before, then arrived at his door and unlocked it.

Neo stepped inside and turned on a light.

He missed this place. It was a dingy old apartment with bad lighting, but he missed it all the same. In the past he'd never really thought too highly of the place, but now that he had left it, nostalgia had transformed his old home into something much better than what it really was.

This was where he'd spent each night in front of his computer searching for something called the Matrix; this was where he'd lived off an unhealthy amount of instant food and pizzas; this was where he'd once accidentally locked himself in his closet, because one day he'd come back from work feeling stressed and needing a nice, dark place to coop up in – it just so happened that aforementioned nice, dark, place had a faulty lock. (He had yelled until Mrs. Thatch had heard and come to save him)

Neo moved over to his computer, and shook the mouse to bring it out of sleep mode. The screen flickered on to reveal the results of the last search he had done; funny how it all seemed so irrelevant now. He closed the windows and shut down the computer.

Around the table and shelves were all the computer CDs he'd accumulated over the years, several filled with illegal programmes that could land him in jail for a substantial amount of time if discovered. More stuff lay in his filing cabinet by the side and under his unmade bed.

Neo went to his bed and sat down on it. He ran his fingers over his blanket, his hand coming eventually to rest on the pillow. So many times he had woken up here to discover he was late for work… and just as many nights had he _not_ slept here, having fallen asleep by his computer.

He got up, headed for his closet, and opened its doors. His clothes hung inside, never to be worn again. Neo pushed them aside and got into the closet, huddling into a sitting position on the closet floor.

The doors swung shut.

There was a click.

Neo swore.

_Right,_ he thought, gritting his teeth in annoyance, all feelings of nostalgia temporarily washed away.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the door. _There is no lock… There is no lock…. Use the Force, Neo… There is no lock…_

There was a click, and he gratefully pushed the now unlocked doors open, trying to ignore the unwanted thoughts of how Yoda would be proud of him. Neo climbed out of the closet and stood up. He gazed at his kitchen area – welcome sanctuary to many little homeless ants – and went to stand in the doorway of the bathroom in which he had suffered many a stomachache. His toothbrush and toothpaste still lay by the sink, along with various other bathroom accessories.

Neo entered and gave the toilet one last flush for old times' sake. Then he went out, shutting the bathroom door behind him. He shouldn't linger any longer, he thought, checking his watch. Time was precious.

Neo gave his apartment one last glance, bidding it a silent goodbye; then he left, never to return again. He walked back to Mrs. Thatch's room and passed her the keys.

"Aren't you taking anything with you?" she asked.

Neo shook his head. "No. I won't need them where I'm going."

"And you can't tell me where that is?"

"I can't."

Mrs. Thatch sighed. "All right, then. Take care of yourself, Thomas."

"I will."

A while later, as she watched his retreating form disappear down the corridor, she suddenly had the feeling that she had to follow him… she had to know…

As quietly as she could, Mrs. Thatch hurried after Neo. She followed him as he left the building and turned the corner to the old telephone box standing there in the dark. He entered, to Mrs. Thatch's puzzlement. Was he going to make a phoneca…

The phone started to ring.

Thomas picked it up and put it to his ear, and for one last second he looked out and saw the old landlady standing there.

Their eyes locked for a moment.

Then green code ran over him, and he vanished.

----

The news blared on the television.

_"… Meanwhile, a computer hacker, Thomas A. Anderson, 37, has been reported missing since last Thursday. The son of John Anderson and Michelle McGalhey, he was last seen at his workplace, Meta CorTechs. A search of his apartment revealed he was in possession of a large amount of illegal and potentially dangerous computer software. If you have any knowledge regarding his whereabouts, please contact the police as soon as possible. And now, for the weather report…"_

----

Days turned into weeks, and she never saw him come back. In the past, Thomas would occasionally help her carry out her garbage, but now she was left to struggle on her own.

And then there was a sudden rise in the number of missing people reports. It was strange how those people all seemed to share certain similarities; for one, many were reportedly computer hackers, or simply those who spent a lot of time with computers. Loners, nerds, weirdos…

Among the friends and families of these missing people, there were whispers of something called the 'Matrix'… something the missing person had apparently been talking about before his or her disappearance, only no one understood what it was all about. Something about reality not being reality… about some program, some computer simulation…

"…_Consider that in the past six months we have freed more minds than in six years…"_

Many of those people who discussed those things then vanished themselves and were never heard of again. No one knew where they went.

Occasionally, there would be reports of a sighting – someone would see someone reported as missing, but upon further inspection, they never found anyone.

And the numbers kept rising, and rising, and rising.

* * *

**THE END**

A/N: Creepy thing happened. Just as I typed 'the phone started to ring', my mother's handphone rang. It kind of gave me a shock…

**MrsShiaLabeouf: **Yep. And not just for breakfast, but lunch, dinner, supper, tea, and second breakfasts. Thanks for reviewing!

**Mystic Kyra:** Uh, what's with all the reviews going on about Neo and his snotty breakfast? Thanks for your review!

**JadeRabbyt:** Thanks! Yeah, I plan on continuing.

**LiMiYa:** Heh. One day, his food will get revenge and play with Neo instead… never mind.

**Sever13:** Um, where to start… 1) It's spelt 'Keanu'; 2) He played TED! TED, not Bill… argh… TED! Yep, it was a funny movie. And yes, I do that all the time. I've written a fic where Neo and Ted get together; it's called They've Got Mail. Alternatively there's another Matrix-Bill and Ted crossover by Bohemian Rabbit, called 'The Matrix: Reconstituted', which is much shorter and makes more sense than mine. It's funny. Methinks Ted and John Constantine should get together some time too… my brother theorises that if that happens, Ted will get murdered and John will commit suicide. Anyway, this is getting out of point, so I shall stop.

**Moreta Lynx:** You work at McDonalds? Surely the food can't be that bad… I like McDonalds. Next chapter's here!

**DigiScanner-Shonen:** Nope, I don't smoke. Except maybe salmon… no, I don't do that either. You can borrow some salmon, though. Thanks for reviewing!


	4. The Boxes

Disclaimer: Still don't own The Matrix trilogy and anything related to it. Except for the DVDs, of course. And a bunch of fan fiction.

* * *

**THE BOXES**

Until this day, he'd never really bothered to find out what was in all those little boxes on the shelf in his room. Most looked rusty and grimy, much like the rest of the ship, and he'd never given much thought to them, simply pushing them aside whenever he needed the space for his few belongings.

But Neo decided that now was as good a time as any to find out what those boxes contained. Going over to the rusting metal shelf, he reached out and took down some of the boxes, then carried them over to his bed.

Neo sat down, placed the boxes on the floor, and picked up the topmost one. A layer of grime coated its once-white plastic surface, and he tried not to touch it any more than was necessary. Lifting its metal latch, Neo opened the box.

The first thing he noticed was the horrible stench that wafted out.

Then he saw the small skeleton inside, still with bits of rotting flesh hanging off the bones. Neo gave a small yell and dropped it in shock.

The box met the floor with a dull clang, and a small piece of paper fluttered out. It was covered in miniscule writing, with a stain on its side which looked uncannily like blood.

Not yet recovered from the sudden unexpected sight of the skeleton, Neo just stared at the note. Then he realised that staring at it was not going to get him anywhere useful anytime soon, and his curiosity about what was written there finally overcame his unwillingness to have any more to do with that box or its contents. Reluctantly, Neo picked up the note, holding it gingerly between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand as he read the words scrawled on it:

_Trevor, you were the best pet rat I could have ever wished for. I'm sorry for feeding you the leftovers of my meals, but I didn't know that they would end up poisoning you. I guess that says something about the quality of the food here, though. If a rat can't take it, there's no knowing what it might do to a person in the long run._

_I'll miss you, Trevor._

_Rest in peace._

_- Lyman_

_What kind of idiot calls his rat 'Trevor'_? Neo wondered, gazing at the note with a raised eyebrow. He turned back at the box with the rat's halfway-decomposed carcass in it, used his shoe to nudge it closer, and dropped the note back in. Kicking the box shut, Neo placed it in a far corner of the shelf before going over to the small sink by the cabin's door to give his hands a good wash.

He then regarded the remaining pile of boxes with considerably less enthusiasm than before, not that he had had much to begin with.

The second box looked the same as the first from the outside – as did the other two beneath it – and Neo opened it with some trepidation, holding it as far away from himself as his hands would reach.

The box's interior was green and fuzzy in a Yoda sort of way. It also stank, but it was a different kind of stink from the first box. While the latter had been the stench of death, this was the stench of life: the stench of undesirable little organisms growing in areas they ought not to.

Neo decided that it was no business of his if his room's previous inhabitant had decided to try his hand at gardening, but then he saw the note in the box, taped to the inside of the cover and filled with the same tiny handwriting.

_DAY ONE: Dumped the remains of my dinner in here. I was going to throw it down the toilet, but I though that I might as well keep it and see what happens after a few days._

_DAY TWO: Still looks the same._

_DAY THREE: It's kind of starting to stink a little now._

_DAY FOUR: It's turning yellowish brown, and several green spots have appeared here and there. And we eat this stuff. I'm going to show it to Morpheus if it gets any worse._

_DAY FIVE: Bigger green spots. I showed it to Morpheus. He said that all food goes bad if you leave it in a box for several days. Git._

_DAY SIX: I thought I saw something move, but maybe it was just my imagination._

Neo looked at the green fuzz that covered most of the inside of the box, and decided that any further reading of Lyman's experimental report would only serve to put him off dinner. He shut the box with a grimace and placed it on top of Trevor's remains.

Two more boxes remained on the floor from the few he'd taken off the shelf. Might as well get it over with…

The third box also had a strange smell, but one that had a familiar quality to it. The inside was smoothly coated with some reddish-brown substance, and Neo reached out a finger to touch it. It felt plastic-y. He prodded it, and it depressed under his touch.

Then the words on the note taped inside caught his eye:

'_Trevor, you have not died in vain. Your blood will remain here forever to remind me of you. –Lyman'_

Neo hurriedly pulled his finger away and slammed the box shut. _Rat blood_. He supposed it could be worse, though… but whoever this Lyman fellow was, he sure had some serious issues, Neo thought, as he washed his finger in the sink, realising that if he kept on like this, sooner or later someone was going to complain about him using up the water supplies on the _Neb_.

One last box lay on the floor now. Neo had more than half a mind to put it back on the shelf without opening it, but his curiosity wouldn't let him.

_Why not?_ he asked it.

_Because,_ his curiosity replied_. OPEN IT. OPEN IT NOW._

Neo wasn't one to argue with the voices in his head. Besides, he had gone through three boxes already… what was one more? Hesitantly, Neo picked up the box and opened it, expecting some other weird odour or other to emanate from its depths.

But all he found was something roughly rectangular-shaped wrapped in paper. And the box smelt completely fine.

Neo lifted out the object and unwrapped it. To his surprise, beneath the paper was an unexpectedly clean and sleek-looking matte black case inside. It seemed so out of place here, more like something that belonged inside the Matrix, not out of it…

Curious now, he pressed the silver button at the side and there was a soft click as the catch came undone.

Neo opened the case, and he stared.

Inside it lay the coolest pair of sunglasses he had ever laid his eyes upon.

It sat there, on top of what looked like a really cool piece of cloth, surrounded by the soft velvet interior of the case. It looked somewhat like the kind of sunglasses he and the others wore when jacked into the Matrix, but with two main differences: Firstly, it looked much, much cooler. And secondly… it was real.

Neo hadn't the faintest idea how the sunglasses had got onto the ship. It took a good minute of gazing in awe at the really cool sunglasses before he thought of looking for a note, and he found one at the bottom of the box.

_Hi, whoever you are._

_Last week when me and some others were on the surface, I found the remains of a sunglasses shop. Most of it had fallen in, but in the stockroom at the back were several boxes filled with cases of perfectly intact expensive sunglasses. So I took this one. I didn't tell anybody because they might think it was stealing, but then I realised that maybe I shouldn't have taken it after all, because what's the point of owning a really cool pair of sunglasses if you can't show it off to everybody? So I'm just leaving it in this box to look at now and then._

_If you're reading this, it probably means that I'm dead or something. So I guess the sunglasses are yours now, then, whoever you are._

_I feel stupid. I bet no one's going to read this and I feel like I'm just talking to myself._

_- Lyman  
_

_P.S. If you're Morpheus, I discovered that a mixture of saliva, urine, rust, seven-day-old food, and salt makes a pretty good hair tonic. I tried it on myself, and it worked wonders. So if you ever decide that you don't want to be bald any more, just tell me._

_P.P.S. Though maybe that won't be possible, because if you're reading this, I'm probably dead._

_P.P.P.S. Then again, you could always try it on your own._

Neo had no idea how to respond to the note, so he ignored it for the moment and went back to gaping at the really cool sunglasses. Carefully, he took it out, marvelling at the smoothly cut dark lenses, running a finger down the polished black handles… and then regretting it, because it left finger marks on its glossy surface.

Neo took out the really cool sunglasses cloth from the case, wiped away the marks his finger had made, then put the cloth back into the case before gently replacing the really cool sunglasses on top of it. He stared at it for a moment longer before shutting the lid.

Neo wrapped the case up again with the paper, and hesitated. He didn't quite like the idea of putting the sunglasses back into the dirty box… Making up his mind, Neo turned around and placed the case into the wire rack above his bed instead, next to his clothes where he could take it out to look at whenever he wanted.

Neo then picked up the box on the floor, now empty save for Lyman's note. He closed the box and returned it to the shelf, then sat back down on his bed, thinking about his latest find.

Somehow, the sunglasses were a sign of hope for him. It was comforting to know that despite the seemingly dilapidated state of the world he lived in, there still remained remnants of a better life, somewhere out there. They might come in forms as minor as a pair of really cool sunglasses… but if those existed, what more was there out there, hidden beneath the ruins of the human cities? Fragments of life in the past… happier times, perhaps; souvenirs of the days when humankind was still in control.

Just a pair of sunglasses… It seemed an anachronism, here on the ship. It belonged to a different time: a time he used to know, or thought he knew. The sunglasses were the only real reminder of the life he'd known for so many years. They were something real that he could see and hold and touch and know was not just some artificial digital construction that would vanish the moment he jacked out...

Just a pair of sunglasses. A really cool pair, but just sunglasses all the same.

Neo shifted his gaze back to the shelf, where more boxes lay, unopened. He wondered what they might hold.

Maybe another time he'd go and see.

**THE END

* * *

**

Hey, the reviews are dying off… where's everybody?

**bekypowriter: **There IS no point. …but yeah, maybe I'll bring Trin or someone else in for a while. I like oatmeal.

**LiMiYa:** 'There is No Lock'? Hey, good idea. Maybe I could title all the fics in this series 'There is No Something…' I'll do it some other day. ;)

**Lady Hawke:** Right, the next instalment is here.

**Grim Reaper:** Fast update here! Oh, and 'So Long, and Thanks for All the Phish' has been updated. Thought you'd like to know. ;P


	5. Delivery

Disclaimer: Own I not _The Matrix_.

Um, okay... Unlike the rest of the fics in the collection, this one isn't meant to follow canon because I admit it's a little far-fetched, (but at least it makes sense...) So it doesn't fit in with the timeline of the rest of my fics. Yep.

* * *

**DELIVERY**

That evening, the sky was a beautiful pale blue, flecked here and there with bits of cloud. The setting sun shone gently onto the house of Michelle and John Anderson, having a homecooked dinner somewhere in the warmly lit kitchen. Outside, the sounds of children playing on the street came faintly through the closed window, the shrill cry of a bicycle bell cutting occasionally through the youthful laughter.

Michelle cast a wistful look out the window at them. She and John had been married for a year, but were still childless. They had tried... but all to no avail, it seemed. Every day, they still waited. And waited.

The clock on the wall ticked quietly on in the background, minding its own business the way it had for several years, some in this house and some in John's old one.

John poked absent-mindedly at a chunk of potato, vaguely marvelling at its remarkable resemblance to Elvis Presley's face when you looked at it from a certain angle. The usual conversation went on between the couple; nothing out of the ordinary, just the same old things they always talked about during dinner time.

Outside, a small moving speck was gradually growing larger in the sky as it headed towards the house. It was a bird - a stork, in fact, and a large one at that, a basket clamped firmly by its feet as it flew. It alighted at the doorstep of the Andersons' house, gently placed the basket down, then pecked at the doorbell to ring it before flying off again.

In the house, John and Michelle looked up, not daring to hope.

In the basket, something stirred.

The stork flew back, picking up unnatural speed that soon had it flying over the ocean and then vanishing with a flash of green code into a hidden area hovering above the ocean. It was a vast platform, delivery storks flying all over it, and on the platform itself every now and then a basket would materialise, each carrying in it a newborn baby, freshly plugged into the Matrix.

Back at the Anderson home, Michelle let out a small gasp of joy as she and John opened the door to see the delivery.

In the basket, the baby boy slept, thumb in his mouth and wisps of dark hair covering his head in a suspiciously Harry Potter way.

"Thomas," Michelle whispered. "His name is Thomas."

And Thomas Anderson slept; not knowing that he was The One, not knowing that one day he would be famous, and not knowing that one day he would save the world.

**the end**


	6. For A Few Days More

Written as a drabble request.

**For A Few Days More**

That night he'd had that same dream again and had woken up in a panic; only after a while did he remember that it had all come and gone and that the scene on the roof had had a happy ending.

The light panels of the _Nebuchadnezzar_ turned on to mark day time. There wasn't much point in going back to sleep now. He got out of bed.

Minutes later he pushed open the door of Trinity's cabin and watched her sleep, each quiet rise and fall of her chest a reassurance that she was still alive, still breathing, still there. They would have days together yet.

So close; it had been so close. This time, now, standing there listening to the gentle sounds of her breathing, dark strands of hair falling over her sleeping face - this time might never have happened. Life is a fragile thing.

Soon she stirred, eyelids flickering open, a brief yawn as she sat up and noticed him.

"Neo," she murmured.

He held out the tray. "I brought you breakfast."

* * *

the end 


	7. Neodammerung

And here you go - my first Matrix fanfic in ages. It's been a while.

Disclaimer: The Matrix is not mine.

* * *

**Neodammerung**

II. _From darkness lead me to light_

It would be easy to slip away in tears beneath the fallen veil of darkness that shrouds his vision, escaping into the quiet relief of the welcoming void to wait for death. The pierced dead will not cry out. And those who fight so valiantly for freedom have already accustomed themselves to the taste of defeat. Prophecies and desperate hope hold little sway in the immediacy of battle; magic has no place amongst blood and gore and the repeated, futile pitting of human passion and anger against unfeeling metal strangers. Faith had long died beneath sharp blades and lasers. They would not fault him for giving up. He was only human.

But yet the gold lines of light that crisscross his mind intrude on his reality, supplanting themselves over the dull grey metal that his ravaged eyes can no longer see. They form the path towards his destiny, beckoning in their mechanical dream glow towards the last chapter of his life, the final step before he can succumb to rest. The lines are alive in their own way, pulsing with a spirited energy that hints at an alternative existence lived in wires and electricity rather than flesh and blood, a sleeker life that imperfect humanity will never be able to fully grasp.

And so he gets up, and he walks on light, almost insensible to the sturdy surfaces that meet his feet with each step. This could be a dream. Reality is not prone to gentle luminous guidance that suffuses his mind with its golden glow and growing sense of calm reassurance that this is what needs to be done, that this is where he was always meant to walk, eventually, as stated in a future written out long ago by mysterious invisible powers far out of reach of his understanding. But then, reality is not something with which he is closely acquainted, and in the tumultuous months since his entry into it the lines between waking and dreaming have never become as clear as he would have hoped.

Once, reality had meant emerging into the wetness of rebirth and gaping at the world that until then had been invisible even as it surrounded him; reality had been blandly nutritious meals bathed in cold artificial light and falling asleep on coarse bedclothes to the perpetual hum of the ship's engines. Reality had been people freed from the confines of utopia and allowed to be human again, had been tribal dances of bare feet on wet clay and love in cosy dwellings carved out of rock. Reality had been hovercraft tumbling through disused sewers and clamouring crowds begging him for salvation.

Whereas now there was quiet and nothing but the luminescence that snuck its way in past blinded eyes, and the occasional chill on a breeze that bit through his tattered clothes and was a constant reminder that he was still alive.

The lines led him to their city, and the scope and grandeur of its golden vastness burst upon him in unrelenting waves, filling his mind with the stories of life that never lived. And it was beautiful.

He took his last step.

Then he waited with patience to deliver his plea for peace.

xxxx

I. _From delusion lead me to truth_

The rain had cleared the city of other pedestrians. He walked alone down the empty pavement, head bowed to keep the water off his face, brisk steps tempered with a curious foreboding that this might be the last walk he took down this street.

A streetlamp's sharp reflection in a puddle cut into his vision with sudden brightness. His eyes shut on reflex; and in that instant he thought he felt the sensation of liquid flowing over his closed eyelids. _It's the rain_, he thought with shaky uncertainty, but his face was still dry when he reopened his eyes on the rain-soaked street.

Something in him made him stop and take a breath and raise his eyes to the cloud-shielded heavens. Raindrops peppered his face, rivulets of water streaming down his cheeks. Yet the hard hitting drops did not match the sensation of the warm fluid coursing over his shut eyes that he had felt... or thought he had felt.

There was something less real about the rain.

He took his hands out of his jacket pockets and held them before him, palms up, catching the fall, trying to get the cold and the wet to jolt him into a stronger certainty and assurance about his physical position in time and space, of his reality, of truth...

The rain got heavier.

He shook his hands free of the water and returned them to his pockets. He walked on. The bridge was just up ahead.

The truth would come in time.

xxxx

III. _From death lead me to immortality_

The problem is choice.

Choice ruins perfection with its tantalising possibilities of deviance, of messy, alternate pathways that lead mostly to destruction and waste. In a perfect world there cannot be choice, there cannot be free will, there cannot be humanity. They are incompatible.

The opposites clash in the sky beneath the unending depths of storm clouds, the curious audience of repeated spectators gazing on in silent observation. They remain still and expressionless even as the fight rages on; they already know the outcome... or think they do.

_So it has come to this_, he thinks, the shapeless buildings rising up to tower around them, the vacant streets that once bustled with activity now drab and grey and dead as the tar that paves them, the militant rows of suited bodies at attention that once had housed living souls, each of them ready to take over if his tireless foe ever falters.

Somewhere from the back of his mind pricks the fear that this is all that is left of the world he used to know, people relegated to robotic duplicates inhabiting a dark city of perpetual gloom; unbidden, memories and images surface even as he takes a punch and tumbles backwards through the air: digging hungrily into a hot bowl of really good noodles, feverishly typing away at his computer, the scent of freshly baked cookies from an oven, the ancient plea of a child: _Mrs. Anderson, can Tommy come out to play?_

Water breaks in a shower over them for the umpteenth time, the realisation that one could not defeat one's equal taking on an unwanted focus in his mind. This fight could last forever; an eternity of trading punches and taking falls and getting up again, of smashing through walls and windows and drawing the blood that even now still flows in his veins, of flying and landing and taunts...

_Why keep fighting?_

The problem is stubborness, determination, refusal to give up. The problem is choice.

A thunderclap in the sky brings him back, back, back to a dim hotel room cosy in its warmth safe from the storm, his rain-washed clothes almost dry as he sits uneasily in a dark red armchair, his tension visible in the way he sits poised to leave, his gaze intense, questioning, wordlessly demanding answers, demanding truth...

And perhaps he never really got that truth in the end. Not enough of it. There are still so many questions, and no one left to answer them.

He staggers back to his feet in the crater they have created, suddenly weary. It is not a physical weariness; he has long surpassed that. But he knows he cannot win; neither of them can. The only path to victory is defeat.

_Everything that has a beginning has an end._

It was inevitable. The darkness covers him, spreading across to encapsulate his body.

Then the sacrifice, and death, and victory in death...

And then the only thing he sees, everywhere, is the light.

And it is beautiful.

xxxx

**the end.**

...Inspired after brainstorming for a university essay, and reading whole lots of Matrix sequel articles in the process of restoring the sole remaining online source of Keanu Reeves articles and interviews, numbering around a thousand pieces. If anyone in future reads an early Keanu interview, they would only be able to do so because of me. \o/ I have a frustrating tendency to volunteer for things like that. Appreciate my work and go there - whoaisnotme dot net, slash articles slash articles dot htm. (/shameless plug) yay thank you.


	8. Secret Window

**Secret Window**

* * *

Sometimes in his dreams he ends up in that other world, a world that for some reason nags at his mind with an unfamiliar familiarity that sometimes frightens him. Places he knows he has never been - could never have been, for in them even the natural mutedness of the dreamscape cannot shield the brilliance of that sun and the freshness of that grass, real beyond anything any program could ever produce. Faces he knows he could never have seen, for he knows he would surely remember people that vibrant and full of life, people who would surely have stood out far too much in the drab grey-green of the world he grew up in, where everywhere were stoic resignation and expressions restrained by the grind of mechanic routine.

Sometimes in those dreams he finds his mind intruded on by snippets of thoughts that are not his - extracts from a stranger's mind oblivious to his presence, and yet at the same time infused with that same intense familiarity, a curious conviction that he knows that other person on a level far more personal and intimate than that of any casual acquaintance or friend or lover.

Those fleeting scenes - relaxed and laughing in the presence of friends, enjoying a steak at a restaurant, running down a dark street pursued by flashing lights, snuggled in a quiet chair lost deep in some thick book; and all these fade away and dissolve into nothing each morning when he awakes, back in his bed, the steady hum of the ship's engine dispersing any fantasy. Grimy cabin walls, ragged clothes, goopy food. No steak here, no Bordeaux wine, no Norton motorcyle that hours ago in sleep he could have sworn he'd ridden many times before. But he knows he's never owned a motorcycle. Doesn't even known how to ride one.

By the time breakfast is halfway done the dreams no longer seem real. Laughable, fragile wisps of things, figments of his imagination that have no place in reality. Products of perhaps an over-excited mind trying desperately to conjure up some ideal life that he had never had but wished he did. His own attempts to explain them away never seem enough, but he tries. There's nothing else he can do about it, anyway.

But then the night comes again and with it the dreams return, fuelling in him a rising desperation to know the truth behind it all, behind the other world he could not have known, behind the person whose thoughts he sometimes shares - trivial thoughts, usually, reactions to things around, tangential offshoots from observations, silent jokes sprung from a sense of humour Neo never had, and once an uninterrupted mental recitation of a chunk of what sounded like Shakespeare.

_Who are you?_ he wants to ask. _Where are you. How am I seeing all this?_

A tree-lined avenue. A house, under-furnished, with a swimming pool. Stacks of paper with typewritten words on them. White tablecloths. A bass guitar. A mirror - and the reflection that stares back is his, but different: slightly older, scruffier, a bit of a beard, a T-shirt that had seen better times; and Neo makes a sudden mental effort to make his presence _known_, a scream of _I am here_ -

He feels something break open to a rush of foreign memories into his mind just as he thinks he sees the reflection give a start and the eyes in the mirror narrow-

A violent jolt and Neo wakes back up in his bed, hyperventilating, breaking out in a cold sweat, and grasping desperately at the stolen thoughts which even now are starting to slip away and leave him with nothing but a single name.

Breakfast. He waits for a suitable time to speak and tries to sound casual.

"Trin?"

"Mm?"

"Does the name Keanu mean anything to you?"

"No... I don't think so. Why?"

"Nothing. Just-" He breaks off and shakes his head, going back to his goop. "Nothing," he says.

And the dreams no longer come, no matter how long he waits for them; and for some reason their absence makes him feel incomplete and so alone.

xxx

**the end.**


End file.
